Tuesday, 12 April 2022
A poem for the 26th annual American
National Poetry Month.
Look At Me Now .....
Once I was a small, cosy abode;
a humble crofting cottage on a
quiet Hebridean island.
The folk who lived within my sturdy
stone walls were simple, hard-working
people with good common sense.
Living by their instincts and the rhythm
of the seasons they sowed, ploughed, harvested
crops and tended their sheep as lovingly
as their children — until one day everything
changed. The laird rode up on his tall white
stallion — they saw him from the window.
The laird jumped down from his horse,
knocked on the cottage door .... rat tattat
and evicted the family without much to-do.
The English were coming and bringing their
sheep; they'll pay him to use his land; be less
bother than yon crofters. "Off with you now,"
the laird said not caring where they went,
feeling no guilt for his inhumanity. He only
had thoughts for the increased income those
English and their sheep would bring. A few
decades went by — not too many, if it be known;
the laird died; the English left taking with
them their sheep. Then a new chapter began.
The English returned, but not to farm. Oh no!
They bought up crofts like me — all over the
islands. Bringing in builders at great expense
from south of the Border they converted us
crofts into second homes. Ubiquitous in our
ugliness, our charm is merely a memory from
long ago. Sprouting wings, extensions, bedrooms
and bathrooms we look like lost palaces in a
fantasy land. They only come once a year, the
English — for two weeks each summer. The rest
of the time we stand empty and lonely; blind
windows gazing sadly at the tranquil
landscape all around. No sheep bleating,
no children's voices. How I miss them all.
© Carola Huttmann, 12 April 2022
